Eleven Crimes
by TheRushHour
Summary: She opened things with her teeth, drank faucet water, and had a voice as fragile and soft as a cobweb. He had no reason to interested. Then again, he never did anything for a reason.
1. Crime One: Vandalism

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harvest Moon**

**A/N: A Chelsea and Vaughn romance. Slightly AU, but a story of them living in the city, seeking some place better.**

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><p><strong>Crime One: Vandalism<strong>

Dr. Jones shifted in her seat, lifting her bifocals from where they hung from a chain around her neck so she could stare down at her nose through them at Vaughn. She really wasn't a bad looking lady. He'd ask for her home number if she weren't so damn uptight.

"So, Mr.… _Vaughn_. Let's say you _had_ pulled off the stunt at the docks. What then? What would you have done with that shipment?"

Vaughn sighed. Shrinks always wanted to know _why_. As if the motive behind theft weren't obvious. "I'd have hocked it, and been filthy rich."

She nodded, even though it was clear she didn't understand. "And what would you have done with the money?"

"I don't know," Vaughn groaned, exasperated. "Whatever I felt like. I'd have bought a penthouse. I'd have flown around the world on a private jet just for fun. I'd have bought an island – yeah, that's what I'd do. If I had gotten that shipment, I'd sell it so I could buy an island."

"…an island."

"Yeah. Just for me. No other people. None of the crowds like the city. None of the stink. Just me and some palm trees. I'd just work on my tan all day long."

"But you'd be all alone," Dr. Jones said. "Or would you buy yourself friends as well?"

"Who needs 'em? An island to myself. That's what I want."

Dr. Jones hummed, scribbling something on her pad and pursing her lips. He didn't bother asking what she wrote – she never told him. "And what is your living situation like right now?" she asked.

"Oh you know," his hand motioned back and forth, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs, ankle to knee. "I like to move around, I'm not home often."

She narrowed her eyes, her mouth twitching down at the corners. "You do have someplace to stay, don't you?"

"Of course," Vaughn flashed a smile. "Wanna see it?"

"How kind of you to offer," Dr. Jones said with a glare. "But no. Where did you grow up?"

"I'm a citizen of the world." Vaughn boasted. "You name it, I've been there."

"Were your parents in the military or something of the sorts?"

"Something like that."

Dr. Jones's expression was unreadable, but Vaughn knew what she was thinking. It was what his shrinks always thought. "Your records of me say otherwise, don't they? They say I never had any parents."

She nodded. "There is a bit of a disparity between what you've told me today and what I have here in your file."

"Lady, I can't speak very highly of police record keeping. Their sketches of me weren't nearly as good looking."

She didn't even smile, only looked more thoughtful. "You're very fond of your appearance, aren't you?"

"Is that a trick question? What's not to be fond of? My dashing smile? My smoldering eyes? The way it always looks like the wind is in my hair?" He turned this way and that. "Seriously, Doc. There isn't any airflow in this stuffy office and yet – it wafts. My hair wafts. It's a gift, really. I was born this way."

"Your self esteem is impressive."

"Sure, sure, write it off as my self esteem and not your undeniable attraction to me. I know you're probably scared – it's okay. It's normal. Even shrinks can't resist me. Don't worry about losing your job – I won't tell if you won't."

Dr. Jones quickly glanced at the clock, clearing her throat. "That's quite enough for today, _Vaughn_. Stop by Sandra's desk on your way out, she'll set up your next appointment. I will let your parole officer know you've begun treatment. Next week we'll discuss medication."

"Don't waste your time," Vaughn said, getting to his feet. "No drugs can make me less irresistible. My pheromones are indomitable."

"We can discuss your pheromones next week, as well. It was nice meeting you."

Vaughn winked and swaggered out of the office, sure that she was watching his ass. They always watched his ass.

* * *

><p>That night, the bar was packed. More work, but there was a bachelorette party, so more tips as well. The ladies were sprawled over their stools, ordering one Cosmo after another. Behind them, a bunch of slobs leered, and behind <em>them<em> the hockey fans hollered at the TV and threw back pint after pint. Vaughn would have preferred not working at all – he didn't like being expected to show up somewhere, and he didn't like paying taxes, either – but his parole officer was always breathing down his neck, and part of the conditions of his release was that he hold a steady job and get therapy. He'd take bar tending and hitting on Dr. Jones over jail.

A skinny blonde with a _maid of honor_ sash waved a hundred gold and offered a devious smile. He headed over and she quirked a finger at him, hoisting herself up on the bar so her breasts brushed his arm when she leaned up to whisper in his ear. "I'll let you keep the change if you give a little sugar to Tina, here. It's her last night as a single lady."

Vaughn smiled. "How much, sugar?"

"A kiss will do. With tongue."

The bride-to-be was swaying on her stool a little, looking Vaughn over, up and down, completely unashamed. He should really cut her off. She was incredibly drunk and promised to another man. But neither of those things were really his problem, and he could use the money.

Did whoring count as a steady job?

He gave them another round and barely bent over the bar before said bride launched herself at him, twining her arms around his neck and sucking his tongue right into her mouth. She tasted like triple sec and desperation, but it wasn't the _worst _drunken slobber fest he'd ever been a part of.

After several long moments he pulled back, but she clung to him like a barnacle. "How much for another?"

He smiled gently, reaching up to detach her arms. "I think you've had enough." She was close to puke-drunk, and that wasn't appealing to him as a bartender or as someone who might otherwise take advantage of the situation.

She pouted, and he nipped her extended lower lip. "If it doesn't work out with Mr. Right, or even if it does, you know where to find me." At fifty gold a kiss, he might yet buy that island.

The bride started looking decidedly green, and Vaughn didn't feel like finding the mop, so he flagged the other bartender. "I'm going out for a butt," he shouted. "Back in ten."

He wove through the crowd, past the groping swooning bachelorettes and the leather-clad pool players and the victorious Polo team as they crushed beer cans with their heads. He pushed through the back door and took the steps two and a time, patting his pockets to find cigarettes.

It wasn't the seediest bar in town by a long shot, but it was seedy enough, and the fresh night air on the roof was cool and good on his skin and in his lungs. He took a few deep breaths before lighting up, cupping his hand around the flame to fend off the evening breeze. The night was clear, and the stars were visible even with all the light pollution. Wind came in off of the ocean and made the air slightly sticky, slightly salty.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift out along the breeze towards the old docks, half crumbling now and rocking with the waves. Part of it had been restored and was now tourist spot. Some days he thought about actually buying admission and going, maybe just the age old need to return to the scene of the crime. But if he were caught anywhere _near_ that place, it was a one-way ticket back behind bars, and he'd had enough of prison.

There was a sudden squeaking sound, like a scared mouse, and he turned to see some kid in a hoodie backing away from him, a can of spray paint falling from their grip. Behind them, on the dirty brick of the taller building next door, an enormous landscape was outlined in orange and purple, jagged rays extending in all directions. It was a definite improvement over the array of genitalia someone had painted there before.

Vaughn tapped some ash away, nodding. "How cute," he chuckled. "Nice job."

Even under the bulky sweatshirt he could tell the _artiste_ was female, he kind of had an eye for those things. Plus, she had a distinctly feminine voice when she "meep"ed again.

"Gotta warn you though, the cops tend to come by this bar a lot. Not really the best spot for doodling."

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, looking like she'd bolt at any moment. Finally, she said, "Where's a better spot?"

Vaughn raised an eyebrow. Odd question. Candid. Trusting. Not qualities he tended to associate with people who hung out on the roofs of bars. "Beats me. Canvas?"

She shrugged a little, shifting out of the shadows. She was cute – big blue eyes and delicate features, freckles on her fair skin. A few strands of dark hair peeked out from under her hood. "I don't think so… I like drawing on big things."

There was something seriously awkward about this girl. She lifted her hand a little, just her fingertips extending beyond her sleeves. "How do you do that?"

He wasn't doing anything, which meant she was talking about his standard state of being. "I can't help it, I always look this good."

She frowned a little, not the reaction he generally got. "I meant that," she pointed to his cigarette. "I see people doing it sometimes, and I don't really get it."

Something _seriously _awkward. "It's just tobacco, if that's what you're asking." Although, at her age, she should have recognized something else by the smell.

She shook her head again, it was a sad and silly gesture, like a confused puppy or something. "No I mean… what's the point?"

Vaughn took another drag, shrugging as he let the smoke blow out his nose.

She laughed a little, the sound clear and strange against the sirens and sounds from the bar below. "You look like a dragon."

Alright, how old _was_ this girl? If she was underage, and his parole officer came by, he'd be brought in just for standing next to her.

She took a step closer to him, her sneakers scuffing against the concrete. She was tiny, quite short and quite skinny, and was as out of place on the roof of the pub as a flower growing out of the taps. She smiled, and it lit up her face. "Can you do any other tricks?"

Tricks? "I was just breathing," he said.

"Oh. Well. Can you do _any_ tricks?"

He inhaled again, then blew a few smoke rings.

She gasped, lips parting in awe. She must be homeschooled. And not own a TV. Or a radio. Or a computer. Or have any friends. "How did you do that?"

He shrugged, blowing out the rest in a huff. "You just kind of make this shape with your mouth, and then this other shape." He tried to demonstrate, but he didn't like the way it made his face feel unattractive.

She tried to mimic him, and she ended up looking kind of adorable, which wasn't fair. She reached out hesitantly. "Can I try?"

Whatever, he'd already stuck his tongue down the throat of a bride-to-be that night, he might as well give a homeschooler her first smoke. He handed her the cigarette, hoping she at least put the right end to her lips. She did.

As expected, she tried taking a breath and immediately erupted into fits of coughing as she inadvertently dropped the thing . Her spasms tossed her hood back to reveal a full head of dark brown hair. It was choppy, like her mom had cut it with safety scissors after arts and crafts. He liked brunettes, even homeschooled ones. But not as much as he disliked prisons. He patted her back gingerly.

"Easy, Tiger."

She apologized between coughs, reaching for the butt.

"Leave it," he said, pushing his toe into the embers. "My break's over anyway."

She finally straightened, her eyes red and watery. "How is that fun?"

He smiled. "You get used to it."

"Why?"

Shrinks and women, always with the 'why's. "Why is it fun to paint on grungy walls?"

She shrank back, hunching her shoulders. He didn't mean it as an insult, but she seemed to take it as one. She mumbled an answer, picking up her backpack which rattled with paint cans.

He asked "what's your name?" before he had a second to wonder why he even cared. He wasn't good with names. He met and left too many people to keep track of them. He mostly didn't bother asking anymore.

She looked like she'd been slapped, turning her face away as she flipped her hood back up and mumbled another answer.

"Huh?"

"It's stupid."

"It's probably not _that_ stupid."

She inched towards the fire escape. It was the most obvious sneak he'd ever seen. He wondered if this was the first time she'd tried anything like this. "I'll come and see you later," she echoed, and the weird part was that it sounded like she was telling the truth.

Then she turned around abruptly and slipped down the stairs, not saying goodbye or looking up at him once. He watched her until she disappeared down into the subway.

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><p><strong>Hello, everyone. This will be a shorter story - ten or fifteen chapters at the most. <strong>

**Some of you may be wondering about my other story, Greener Pastures, that has not been updated in several months. I will finish it, but every time I write the next chapter, I get upset with it and trash it. I will keep trying - promise.**


	2. Crime Two: Underage Drinking

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of HM**

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><p><strong>Crime Two: Underage Drinking<strong>

Dr. Jones was wearing old fashioned stockings, the kind with the seam up the back. Vaughn could see it when she recrossed her legs. Watching them made the hour go faster.

"Do you remember the first time you stole something?"

Vaughn shrugged, his gaze drifting to the open window and the leafy branch scratching against the screen. "I remember the first time I was convicted."

"Yes, but I'm not talking about the shipment right now. What's the _first _theft you can remember?"

Bits of memories flitted through his brain, circling and contradicting each other. He narrowed his eyebrows. "How do you know that wasn't my first?"

"Problems like yours don't just suddenly appear," Dr. Jones said. "During your five years at prison, you were reprimanded for over eighty instances of petty theft, and I'm guessing there were more that were unreported."

Vaughn could never resist a chance to brag. "A lot more."

Dr. Jones opened Vaughn's file, scanning one of the pages. "You stole pens, books, socks, iron filings, and even a fellow-inmate's gum wrapper collection."

Vaughn smiled at the memory. "It came in a weird box, too. There were maybe three thousand wrappers in there. Some of them had jokes and comics."

"But you didn't read them, did you?"

"No, they were awful."

She tapped her pen against her chin. "I see here that you kept all of these things behind a loose brick in the wall under your bed."

"I had other hidings spots, too."

"Did you read any of the books? Wear the socks?"

Vaughn shook his head.

"Then why did you steal them all?"

Enough with the why's! "I was bored. You said it yourself - five years. What do you want me to do in there?"

"But you didn't actually _want _any of those things."

"Sure, I wanted them."

"Why? What were you going to do with all of those gum wrappers?"

"Ask the weirdo who collected them. Wasn't my idea."

She quirked a smile. "But why did you take them?" She tilted her head, studying him.

This was a weird therapist trap, he knew it. She was looking for a specific answer, or perhaps she was trying to make the point that he didn't have an answer. The only way out of this trap was absurdity.

"Doc, the future of the gum wrappers market is looking mighty promising. There are some dedicated collectors out there who'd pay good money for those things."

She sighed, surveying her sheet like it was a test and he was failing. "Well, then, what started this trend of stealing items for their potential resale value? Do you remember the first time you did it?"

An itch crept up his spine. It wasn't really a chill. It was like a hairy caterpillar was marching right up the center of his back. He wanted out. He tossed his head, banking on the open window giving him a bonus multiplier to hair waft action. "I don't do back story."

She pursed her lips. "You do realize you're in psychotherapy, don't you?"

"And only ten sweet weeks to go. How will you cope without me?"

"Back story is the spine of psychotherapy."

Vaughn smiled, kicking his feet up to rest on the coffee table. "That makes us a pair of flirting invertebrates, then."

She sighed, closing her file as she glanced at the all clock. "Well, do consider coming to sessions in more of a forthcoming spirit, _Mr. Vaughn_, or you're wasting your time. I'll see you next week."

It was a waste of time no matter what. Vaughn knew from experience. On the way out he whipped around to catch her in the act of watching his ass, but she was putting his file back in her cabinet and shaking her head. She was a quick one.

After confirming his next session at the front desk, he noticed someone sitting in the waiting area – a familiar someone. A certain awkward vandal with freckles and blue eyes.

She was still wearing the same dark hoodie, even though it was daytime and she was inside. The hood was pulled up and she had her arms crossed over her chest like she was cold. She was looking at her sneakers, turning her feet this way and that and examining them, and didn't notice him until he walked right up to her, the tips of his own shoes entering her vision.

She looked up, eyebrows lifted. "Oh," she quipped. Her eyes were so bright, it was almost unnatural, like she could stare right through his skull.

He shrugged off the feeling. "Yeah, 'oh.' Fancy seeing you here."

She looked left and right, then bit her lip. "Are you here to tell my therapist what I did?"

Jones was her therapist? "What you did?"

She nodded. "On the wall."

"Oh. No, it's your business where you mark your territory. Jones is my therapist, too."

Her eyes widened. "You're in therapy? Why? You seem normal."

Was that a compliment? "Seem being the operative word. But thanks. My parole officer is making me. A condition of my release." Why was he telling her that? Whatever, there was no shame in being an ex-con. Women love ex-cons.

Her eyes were as big as saucers now. "You were in prison? What did you do?" She blanched, and there was horror in her expression, as if she thought he might shank her at any moment.

"It's what I _almost_ did. If I'd succeeded, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation right now. I'd be on an island somewhere."

She looked around again, so obviously conspiratorially he wanted to laugh. It's like she learned her mannerisms from cartoons. "Because you _almost_ killed someone? You'd be exiled to an island? With cannibals?"

Where did she get this stuff? "What? No. Because I'd be rich enough to buy my own island and get away from all of this shit." And what was with all this talking he was doing? She already knew almost as much about him as his therapist did.

She looked him over thoughtfully, like his life story was written on his face. "Is that why you took the receptionist's stapler? Are you going to steal little things until you can buy your island?"

She saw that? It had been such a clean swipe. Even Sandra, the receptionist, didn't see it and he'd taken it from under her nose. "What stapler?"

"The one in your pocket. The purple mini one."

"I don't steal staplers," he said firmly. Only socks and gum wrappers. And cargo.

She frowned, eyes flickering down to his pocket where, indeed, there rested the purloined stapler. But he wasn't about to admit it, he never admitted anything.

She turned to her left, to the empty chair beside her. "What do you think, Quill?" She nodded once, tilting her head as if considering. "That's true, he doesn't have very pointy teeth."

Vaughn ran his tongue once over his incisors. Was she checking out his teeth? That was a first. Though of course they were as immaculate as the rest of him. He cleared his throat. "Who are you talking to?"

She looked irritated. "Who do you think I'm talking to?" She turned back to the chair, which was still entirely vacant. "I think we should trust him. He must have his reasons."

She must have been trying to creep him out, because there was seriously no one there. He'd heard plenty of people muttering to themselves in prison. It was her blue eyes that gave him the willies.

The door opened behind them, and out stepped Dr. Jones. "Chelsea, Dear, you can come on in."

"Chelsea?" So that was her name, huh? No wonder she hadn't told him.

She got up, shoulders slouched. "It's probably not even my name," she mumbled, pushing past him. She glanced over her shoulder once and said "Come on, Quill."

"Pascal's here today?" Doctor Jones asked gently, setting a hand on Chelsea's shoulder. "That's lovely."

Chelsea shrugged. "You told me to bring him. He doesn't like doctors very much so he's nervous."

"Well, no need for that," Dr. Jones said, ushering Chelsea into her office and stopping to shoot Vaughn a dirty look before following and closing the door behind her.

Of course, Vaughn was the bad guy for talking to her, even though Chelsea was clearly the one with issues. Vaughn huffed and left the office. He was used to being blamed for everything, but he'd like to think he was above messing around with kids with identity issues and imaginary friends.

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><p>A few nights later, things were slow at the bar. There weren't any games on TV and it was raining, so everybody stayed home. Vaughn was wiping down the counter and giving rounds to a few of the persistent regulars. A weepy middle-aged woman had been in earlier, but he tried to sell her a kiss for fifty bucks and she slapped him and left.<p>

He'd gone to the roof for all his breaks since his run in with Chelsea. He was always disappointed he when didn't see her, even though he wasn't sure what good would happen if he did. They'd just have an awkward conversation in which she'd accuse him of stealing office supplies and he'd say too much for his own good. Maybe he was just bored. There was something completely not boring about that girl.

Especially at that moment when she walked into the bar. Her face was set, like she was heading into battle, and she strode purposefully towards the bar and climbed up onto a stool. She took a deep breath, "Hi."

He put on a dashing grin, tossing the wipe rag aside. "Well, hello. Can't stay away, can you? I do have a certain magnetism."

She either didn't hear him or she didn't care. "Dr. Jones told me not to talk to you."

"Did she?"

She nodded. "So I came here."

Of course? "You're going to have to explain that logic to me."

She frowned. "So far, better things have happened to me when I don't do what I'm told." She was sitting up perfectly straight, hands folded politely on the bar in front of her.

"Smart girl. Well, then I recommend you don't buy a drink and don't give me a tip."

"I'm not stupid," she scoffed, looking around the bar. "But you have to drink something to sit at a bar, don't you?"

"It's expected."

She nodded, pointing to the glass of a guy a few stools down. "Can I have that?"

Vaughn raised an eyebrow. "Scotch?" he could give it to her, just to see her spit it out and look cute sputtering. But then again, he could get caught. "Can I see some ID?"

She hesitated, then fished around in her pocket for her wallet, finally handing over a federally issued photo ID. She looked miserable in the picture – extremely pale, with slightly sunken cheeks and dead eyes. It said her name was _Chelsea Smith_, and she was eighteen. Legal for some things, not for others.

"Chelsea Smith?" Vaughn handed the ID back. "Quite a contrast in names, there."

She took a handful of bar nuts and was arranging them in different shapes on the counter. "They gave me my last name. It's not mine. First name's not mine, either."

Vaughn raised an eyebrow, getting a big curvy glass and mixing some soda and grenadine. "Who's they?"

"The police."

This girl got worse and worse for him every minute. "The police named you Smith? And who named you Chelsea?"

He put a syrupy cherry on top and handed over the drink, which Chelsea inspected critically. "This is not what that guy has."

"You'll like it better."

She took a sip, waiting pensively for several moments before smiling and taking a few more. "I can't even taste the alcohol."

"You lush." He gestured towards the empty stool next to her. "Does Pascal want one, too?"

She looked at him like he was insane. "Pascal's not here." She pushed the peanuts into a sun shape.

"You really like nature," he commented, bringing another bowl of nuts over for her. "Just crazy about being in it?"

"Just crazy," she said. "You know…" she stopped, staring at the bubbles in her drink. Then abruptly, she looked right at him. "What's your name?"

He leaned his elbows on the counter, not shying away from her gaze. "I'll tell you if you tell me where you got the name Chelsea."

"The lady I used to live with gave it to me," she said easily.

"Not your mother?"

"That wasn't your question. What's your name?"

He opened his mouth to tell her in the dulcet tones required of a name as fine as his, and then… nothing would come out. The syllables wouldn't form on his tongue. He coughed. He took a sip of her disgustingly sweet Shirley temple. He coughed again. "It's uh… it's Vaughn," he said, his most anticlimactic introduction to date.

He looked for a way to change the subject. Usually he liked to repeat his name a few times both so that the ladies would not forget it and because it just sounded so nice. But he just couldn't, and he didn't want to think about why. "So… the sun, huh? Wanna tell me why you're so interested in it?"

She shrugged, making another, smaller sun out of nuts. "I'll tell you, if you tell me what you stole to put you in prison."

He was surprised she didn't already know. "Deal."

Without any aplomb, she grabbed more nuts. "I used to think I was a farmer."

It was silly, really. But it only struck Vaughn as sad, this girl in front of him, thinking she was a farmer in the city. "This city hasn't seen a ranch in a couple hundred years."

"Yeah well, I was wrong." She closed in on herself even more, pushing the nuts into a big pile. She didn't say anything for a long time, so maybe Vaughn could have shirked his end of the deal, but her extreme slouch was messing with gravity and pulling him in. He had to lighten the mood.

"Well, cowgirl, I was thrown in jail for attempting to steal your livestock."

"Don't call me that," she mumbled, draining the last of her drink dramatically, as if it really were alcohol and she needed it. She had no idea.

"Alright, Chelsea – or do you not like that either?"

She shrugged. "I'm used to it, at least."

He pointed to her choppy dark hair. "Should we go for irony, since you were a farmer and I'm the cowboy? How about Rancher?"

Vaughn had seen a lot of people turn green in his bar before, but none so quickly, and none so dramatically. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she shook a little as she climbed down from her stool. "No," she said softly. "Nothing like that. Here." She reached for her wallet, but Vaughn waved her away.

"On the house. Are you okay?" He never gave away drinks. What was he doing? "Let me call you a cab, you don't look so good."

"I'm fine," she whimpered with a wide, dimpled smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm going to go home. I think Dr. Jones was wrong, and I should hang out with you. I'm going to hang out with you again sometime. Bye." She turned and walked out, leaving Vaughn waving a little in confusion. How did she come to those conclusions? He walked to the door to make sure she got to the subway steps alright, a terrible taste in his mouth.


	3. Crime Three: Drug Trafficking

**Disclaimer: Nope. Own nothin'.**

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><p><strong>Crime Three: Drug Trafficking<strong>

Dr. Jones wasn't even trying to hide her disapproval this time, her deep frown bringing out every little wrinkle on her face. She shouldn't be so judgmental. It aged her. "Vaughn, really," she scolded, clicking her pen. "Do you actually think Chelsea is an appropriate friend for you?"

"I didn't say she was my friend," Vaughn repeated for at least the tenth time. "She's a customer. A regular. She comes by almost every night now." If he was honest, it was bad for his tips. He didn't feel right hitting on drunken ladies when Chelsea was there making nut-art.

Jones shook her head. "In order to be a customer, she'd have to pay. But you just said you comp all her drinks."

There was that, too. It was coming out of his paycheck. He just couldn't take money from her. She was so skinny and sad looking all the time, and he remembered what it was like to be skinny and sad looking.

He shrugged. "So I do a little pro-bono work. I would think you'd be proud of me. It's a completely selfless act."

"You say that, but don't you think you're getting something out of it? Why else would you do this? You've never described yourself as particularly altruistic. And I'm telling you, Vaughn. She is not wooing material for you. If you take her to bed with you, I will be on the phone with your parole officer faster than you can put out your cigarette."

He pushed the image aside as quickly as it entered his head. He wouldn't think about that. For once, he _couldn't_ think about that. Chelsea did not need a lover. She needed soup and a blanket or something. Maybe a hug. Okay, the girl definitely needed a hug. But that's as far as it went. That didn't mean he couldn't get defensive about it. "She's eighteen."

"You've had this discussion with her already?"

"What? No. I checked her ID. I'm required by law to do so, you know."

She pursed her lips. "And your mind immediately jumped to the fact that she's legally allowed to have sex with you?"

"No, _your _mind jumped to that." He tried to hide his discomfort, picking at the arm of his chair. "You seem awfully concerned. Why? Does she talk about me a lot?"

Jones pressed her lips together in a thin line, eyes darkening. "You know I can't tell you what we talk about in here."

"This seems like a conflict of interest. Maybe I should get a different shrink."

She barked a laugh. "I'm not letting either of you out of my sight. Listen to me carefully, Vaughn. Chelsea Smith has been through more than you could imagine. I'm trying to help her come to terms with herself and find a nurturing environment to heal in. She should not be hanging out in bars and she _certainly_ should not be hanging out in bars with _you_. If you care about her at all, you'll tell her to shoo next time she comes in."

He'd gotten this lecture for years from the worried friends and relatives of various girls, and so far they'd been right - he'd made quick work of all the women they'd warned him not to touch. Maybe it was inevitable. He couldn't help it - he got bored and they got clingy and annoying and that was that. Maybe even with the best intentions he'd do something terrible to this poor girl. Was it possible for her to be _more_ damaged? It was difficult to imagine her with any more emotional bruises, as black and blue as she already was.

Jones let out a breath, closing her eyes and opening them again, slowly, putting her therapist face back on. The therapist face is an impartial face, an inquisitive face. Contrary to popular belief, therapists aren't really supposed to give you advice. They're just supposed to direct your bitching and then throw pills at you. Jones was straying beyond her station with this little rant. "Let's parse this out, shall we?" she said, adjusting her glasses. "Why are you so drawn to her?"

"I'm not," Vaughn quickly corrected. "She was drawn to me. She came into my bar. She sat down. She babbles and plays with the snack food. I would think you'd understand - bartenders are practically therapists. We just go about our business and crazies flock to us. For an hour they think someone gives a shit about them, when no one actually does."

"You think she's crazy?"

"Isn't she?"

"You think no one 'gives a shit' about you?"

Oh please, how did this turn sob story? "No, I said that people come to the bar because they're lonely. I listen. I give them anti-depressants, like you, just in liquid form. They pretend I care, but I don't. I'm just taking their money."

Jones hummed, lips quirked at the corners. "But let's turn the tables, shall we? I'm the therapist here. Does that mean, as my client, you come here and for an hour a week and pretend someone cares what happens to you?"

"The analogy isn't perfect, okay?" Vaughn shook his head, standing. Therapy was like running a gauntlet where the blows being thrown are your own words hurled back at you. "You wasted another hour, doctor. We didn't talk about my theft once today."

She rose as well, moving to open the door for him. "The theft is a symptom, Vaughn. We're trying to fix the disease."

Vaughn huffed, angry only at himself for being ruffled. His greatest strength was that he kept his cool, and he was letting her get under his skin. "A disease? You think it's contagious? Is that why you don't want me to hang around with Chelsea?"

"Do _you_ think it's contagious?"

Vaughn took a second to notice that Chelsea wasn't in the waiting room. He was a little disappointed, but clamped down on that annoying feeling immediately, striding over to the receptionist to get another appointment card.

"I changed her session day," Jones frowned, as if reading his mind. "Why do you find yourself looking for her?"

"You're like a little kid," Vaughn snapped. "Why why why?" He snatched up the reminder card and stuffed it into his pocket. Along with a ceramic ladybug paperweight.

"Welcome to psychoanalysis."

* * *

><p>At the bar that night, Vaughn gave Chelsea a present. It wasn't all that fancy, but he bought it, and he didn't have much money, so he considered it kind of a big deal. He handed it to her in a paper bag, and from the way she completely lit up, it was obvious she considered it a big deal, too.<p>

"It's for _me_?" She gasped excitedly, eyes widening as she looked from the bag and back to him.

"Yeah," he nodded coolly. "I figured this could keep you busy. You're going through the bar snacks too quickly."

She reached inside and pulled out the enormous sketchbook and drawing pencils. He'd bought the biggest one he could find, given her preference for large surfaces, and had to ask the lady at the store about pencils since he hadn't the slightest clue what someone who knew how to draw drew with.

She swallowed, completely silent, running one hand over the textured cover, eyes following her hesitant finger tips.

He gave her a few moments to collect herself, but still she said nothing. She didn't even open it. He cleared his throat. "Uh... if it's not your thing, I can take it back. Do you need a certain kind of paper or something?"

"I've never had a sketchbook," she whispered. It wasn't pitiful or sheepish, it was just a statement. "Actually no one has ever given me a present at all. Thank you."

Suddenly Vaughn was acutely aware that he had never _given _anyone a present. But there was a reason for his generosity. He wasn't going to ask why she never had a sketchbook, or where she learned to draw, or why she was so fascinated by big surfaces, even though he wanted to know the answers to all of those questions. The entire point of the gift was to soften the blow of his horrible rejection. "Listen," he said carefully. "Jones doesn't think you should be hanging around here. You told me that yourself last week. She might have a point."

She didn't look up from marveling over the cover of the sketchbook. But her ears perked, and he knew that she heard him.

"A bar is probably not the best hang out for you, you know?" he continued. "Why don't you go out with your friends?"

She finally flipped open the cover and ran her hand over the first completely blank page. "What friends?" Again, completely neutral, completely factual. It was a little eerie, actually.

"You know, friends. People you share laughs with. People you bitch to. People you can trust. People you go do... whatever it is you do, with. Friends."

She brightened a little, finally looking up at him. "So, we're friends then, you and I."

He couldn't answer that kindly. Since when did he care about kindness? "What about Quill?"

"Quill's right here," she pointed cheerfully, glancing at her shoulder, then back at him with a smile. "So I guess I'm among friends." What _was _Quill, that he fit on her shoulder?

"Chelsea, look. I'm a little old for you, don't you think?" The words tasted bitter and acrid on his tongue. He wasn't too old for anyone or anything. He was young and gorgeous to a fault. But he did have a habit of burning through women like he burned through money, and he knew that if she stuck around, then sooner or later she'd be part of the wreckage, too.

She tilted her head curiously. "Too old for what?"

There was a twinkle in her eye, almost as if she knew, and a completely innocent twist to her lips, as if she had no idea whatsoever.

God, it was like therapy all over again. Everything's a fucking riddle. He sighed, grabbing a towel and drying glasses just to have something to do with his hands.

"If you don't want to be my friend," she said with a shrug, popping a pencil out of the box and laying it to the page. "Then you can just do your job and I'll sit here and draw. And you can not look at me and not speak to me and pretend I don't exist." She pulled the sketchbook to an angle where he couldn't see what she was drawing. Her eyes flicked up to his once, briefly, then back to the paper. "But I bet you won't."

He was a betting man, but he wasn't about to wager against her.

* * *

><p>It was a warm day, so Dr. Jones had the window open. There was a wasp trying to get in, buzzing and hissing and slamming against the screen. It gave Vaughn something to focus on when he didn't feel like staring back at Jones's impassive face.<p>

"Vaughn, I'd like to talk about your childhood again."

Vaughn sighed, watching the wasp crawl over the metal screen, looking for a hole. "It's like I told you, I was an army brat. I was raised all over."

She hummed, scribbling something on her pad. "You never said, and in fact, I thought you'd hinted that your parents were diplomats, actually."

"Same difference."

She made a little sound, almost a snort, which made Vaughn look back at her face. She was looking at him curiously, she almost seem pleased with herself. "You're not trying very hard with your fake identity today. Does that mean you're in a very good mood? Or a very bad one?"

"Fake? I'm the genuine article, Doc."

She stared at him for a very long time, her look a mix of fascination and pity that made Vaughn return his full attention to the wasp. It was making a battering ram of itself now, flying away and then crashing back into the screen over and over. He found he didn't know what to say, which was a little embarrassing because he'd really set himself up, but he didn't have any zingers. He didn't want to talk about his childhood _or_ his adulthood.

Jones seemed to sense this. "That's fine," she frowned. "What _do_ you want to talk about? Anything interesting happen this week?"

Vaughn shrugged. Lots of interesting things had happened, but none that Jones would be pleased to hear about.

He'd spent most evenings serving drinks and pretending not to watch Chelsea fiddle with her new sketchbook. At first, it seemed to stress her out. She mumbled that she usually drew on walls and wasn't used to this size, even as big as the sketchbook was. He suggested that she draw something that was normally very very small, so that the space seemed big, which she thought was brilliant. The next four nights she drew the hairy leg of a beetle, the top of a wine cork, filament from a light bulb, and the very corner of Vaughn's left eye, crinkled as if he were smiling. As she drew, a kind of content concentration stole her features. In those moments, she didn't seem lost or helpless at all. She was in control, and it was adorable and fascinating.

There was a long enough pause that Jones prompted him. "Chelsea told me you told her you didn't want to be her friend."

This felt like playground mediation. "I thought you couldn't tell me what she told you in sessions?"

"It wasn't in session, it was in the waiting room. And anyway, I want to know what you think. Is that what you said?"

The wasp seemed to ram itself into the screen one time to many, or maybe just too hard, because it bounced off the screen like a pebble and fell straight to the ground. "No, I said I wasn't the right kind of friend for her, and she should look elsewhere. But now I think that she doesn't have any other friends, which is a bizarre. She's very sweet and funny, and she's cute. I'd think she'd have many friends."

Jones' expression turned dark, and Vaughn cut in. "I said she was _cute_, Doc. You know what else is cute? A basset hound puppy. You going to report me for that?"

She ignored him, looking less stern at least. "Last week you said she was crazy."

"Cute people can be crazy. Just look at me - I'm the cutest person in the world and you think I'm certifiable. And we can be popular, too. Which is why I don't get why she has no friends."

"Why is it so hard to understand? Where are all of your friends, Vaughn?"

Now she was just being mean. "Who needs 'em? Friends always want things from you, always want you to call back and spend time with them and expect you to behave in certain way. I prefer amiable acquaintances. Chelsea, though, I think she could use some actual buddies. You should help her out with that."

Vaughn saw the clock hit the hour, and stood. He preferred ending sessions rather than having them ended on him - it felt more like dumping someone and the other like being dumped. "Well, it's been swell. I'm going to go chain smoke and then help people get drunk all night."

Jones shook her head, but she called out to him when he reached the door. "You know, if you read the paper more, you might learn a thing or two about Chelsea that I could never tell you."

Which was how Vaughn ended up in the library that afternoon for the very first time in his life.

* * *

><p>And five minutes after he entered, Vaughn left the library for the first time in his life, none the wiser.<p>

The thing was that if Chelsea looked up all the clippings on him, she wouldn't come see him every night. She wouldn't talk with him. She wouldn't smile at him like she liked to be around him. It was because she had no idea who he was that they had any kind of interactions at all. Vaughn didn't have opportunities for blank slates very often.

And if whatever happened to this girl was in the papers, she probably didn't get a chance to make her own impression on people very often, either. (In fact he was sure that was true, because she had so unpracticed an air it was clear she didn't get out much.) Maybe she hung around him _because_ he didn't know. Maybe it was a relief to her. He'd let her keep that.

Also looking her up would be admitting a kind of interest in her he didn't want to have. And that was any kind of interest at all.

That night, Chelsea was sitting near the TV with a bunch of the regulars. Where Vaughn had tried to be distant, these guys took to her quickly and she split her time between chatting with them at their table and drawing at the bar near Vaughn.

They looked like the worst possible thugs ever, but they weren't so bad. Well, they _smelled_ really bad, but they wouldn't hurt her. Vaughn had even opened the bar early for them once so they could have a poetry slam before the rest of the patrons showed up and they resumed their gruff personas.

Chelsea had spent most of the evening at their table. The bar was pretty busy so Vaughn hadn't really been supervising (the worst that had happened thus far was that one of them had let her taste his whiskey and she'd spilled the rest in her shock at its intensity.)

Around one in the morning, the bar area had cleared somewhat and Chelsea strode over, sketchbook in hand. She hopped up onto a stool and flipped it open, brandishing a new set of oil crayons, probably gifted to her by the thugs. They were always one-upping him. Not that he cared.

"Hey you," she meowed, slowly. Her voice was odd, like she was feeling the words on her tongue as she said them. In fact she was looking down her nose as if she could see them coming out of her mouth. "You, friend who is not actually a friend. I'm going to draw your other eye, now. Try not to move too much."

Then she looked at her crayons, eyes widening in a kind of awe. "I'm going to draw your eye," she repeated, though she made no move to do so. She didn't even lift her hands from her lap, so absorbed by the look of her crayons was she.

This was odd behavior even for Chelsea. "Have you been drinking?" Vaughn set down the glass he was drying and leaned over the bar to catch a whiff of her breath. He smelled grenadine, but that was all.

She smiled at him, the warm glow of it spreading over her face like a sunrise. "Nope."

"Have you had enough to eat today?" He slid the bar nuts over to her. They weren't exactly nutritious and people had been reaching their hands in the bowl all night, but there wasn't any other solid food in the bar.

She stared at him, smiling, for several long seconds before answering. "Before I came over here, I stopped at Freddy's Market down the street and ate a whole half a chicken. And some potatoes."

Alright that kind of appetite was a question for another day. "Have you been sleeping okay?"

She put her hands on the bar, running her palms over the wood. "I don't know. I don't sleep very much. I don't like to dream." She looked back at the crayons. "I'm going to draw your eye."

"You just said that." Vaughn frowned. "What were you doing over there with those guys?"

She giggled a little, drumming her fingers on the counter. "Big Ange did some baking and I ate one of his brownies."

Oh, hell. Vaughn put on his mean face. "Angelo!" he barked. It wasn't hard to get the big man's attention - all of the thugs were watching the bar as if they knew very well what was going on. Angelo sauntered over. He was a big guy, and he always had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled so low no one could see his face.

"Have you been baking again?"

He shuffled his feet, slouching. "Don't say it so loud. It's not a hobby I admit to publicly."

"How much pot did you put in those brownies?"

The thug shrugged. "Just the usual amount. And I only gave her one. It's not a big deal, she's happy."

"She's happy _now_. You gave her a _whole brownie_? Look at her, she's like four feet tall and weighs ninety pounds. Why would you do that?"

Chelsea was still grinning like a total dope, eyes glassy yet twinkling, which was eerie on her. "I'm four _eleven_ and I weight ninety-_five_ pounds."

Vaughn rubbed the bridge of his nose. "An entire one of your brownies would get _me_ completely stoned. She's going to be high for hours."

Angelo raised his hands in surrender. "She took one bite and then gobbled the whole thing up. How was I supposed to know? I don't usually hang out with little things like her. I don't know what she can handle. Maybe she's old hat at this."

Chelsea was swaying on her chair, very slowly, leaning as far to one side as she could before saying "whooooooa" and slowly swinging back the other way, repeating indefinitely. Vaughn took one look at her and then looked back at Angelo.

"Alright,"he gve in with a nod of his hood. "She's clearly not old hat at this. Now I know that. Won't happen again."

Vaughn sighed. "No cupcakes either. Or doughnuts. _Or_ rhubarb turnovers. No more pot for Chelsea, without asking me first." Wait, since when was he her caretaker? Why did he care, anyway? If she wanted to get stoned out of her mind, she should go right ahead and do it and he shouldn't be involved. He kept saying things he didn't mean. He didn't _think_ he meant. He just kept _saying things_.

Angelo slunk away, leaving Vaughn watching Chelsea stop her swaying with an oddly distressed look. "Is this what it feels like to be on the ocean?" she moaned, clutching the bar as if her world were spinning.

"It's what it feels like to eat one of Atilla's brownies," Vaughn said, circling back behind the counter. He still had two hours left of his shift before he could take her somewhere safe to ride it out - and where was he going to take her, anyway? How did he get himself into this mess?

Luckily, she had a rather obsessive personality. He needed her to focus on something and not get into trouble and not throw up for the next two hours. "Here," he snapped his fingers to get her attention. He took out a couple of old corks and set to teaching her bartender slight-of-hand.

It was going to be a long night.


End file.
